


Nail in My Hand

by Lys ap Adin (lysapadin)



Series: Bloodsport [4]
Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-12
Updated: 2011-05-12
Packaged: 2017-10-19 08:04:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/198697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lysapadin/pseuds/Lys%20ap%20Adin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's going to take him a while to put himself back together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nail in My Hand

**Author's Note:**

> Another installment of [the vampire AU](http://archiveofourown.org/series/8161); this one follows up on the heels of [under cover of darkness](http://andreaphobia.livejournal.com/233286.html). Vampires, gore, fighting, crazy!Yamamoto, and other lovely things. 3246 words.

It was a while before Takeshi remembered how to think. It came back to him slowly, emerging from the layers of instinct and hunger and frenzied grief like something rising from the depths of the ocean, made strange by its long submersion.

It began to come back to him on a hunt when he caught the scent of prey on the wind. He moved to follow it, but the other-who-was-like-him-but-stronger caught him, growling something that didn't quite make sense. When he strained against the other's hold, the other growled it again.

He strained against the other's grip, but the other was strong. And the other... was not prey to be attacked. The other was like him.

Something long unused filtered meaning out of that. And there were... protocols... for such things. They had to percolate through instinct and hunger and were accompanied by other things, things that had made sense, once upon a time, things he remembered only dimly. The thing that the other was growling meant... it meant _no_.

And he found himself responding by shaping another word: "Why?"

He didn't need words to know that the way the other's fangs showed meant that he was pleased.

   
 

One word brought others, piecemeal fashion. The other did not speak much, seeming to prefer the range and flexibility of growls: low ones barely voiced and louder ones that verged on outright snarls, plus one that wasn't really a growl at all so much as it was a rumble in the chest, as of pleasure. Takeshi liked that one and what it meant: they had hunted and fed and returned to the place of quiet rooms and sliding doors and the sound of birdsong and water, and the other one was content. Pleased.

Sometimes, if the other was making that contented sound (purring, Takeshi recalled, with the vague memory of soft fur vibrating under his fingers flashing through his mind), Takeshi, feeling bold, would creep into the other's room and sit as close as he dared to watch him.

The other's scent changed whenever he did that, even if he carried on with the things he was doing—reading or drawing a slender brush across paper or simply sitting in the shadows, back very straight, as a bar of sunlight moved across the floor. Takeshi liked the way the other's scent changed, liked breathing it in and letting it roll across his tongue. It tasted like hunger, like want, though that didn't entirely make sense to him—the other was not prey, and he was not himself prey for the other, but they were hungry for each other nonetheless.

It was very strange.

Sometimes, when the hunt had been very good and the other was very pleased, and Takeshi very bold, he crept close enough to touch. The other's claws were sharp and he kept them clean, but sometimes he permitted Takeshi to taste them and preen them anyway, using tongue and fang to scour them of even the faintest traces of their prey's blood. Best of all was when the other returned the favor by bearing Takeshi to the floor and holding him there as his tongue licked into Takeshi's mouth and traced over his fangs. The scent of the other's hunger always hung heavily in the air then, mixing with the scent of Takeshi's own hunger. The other used words then, growling them to Takeshi over and over as his claws pricked Takeshi's throat.

Takeshi made sense out of them slowly, till they resolved into three words repeated often: _You are mine_. Sometimes the other didn't bother with even that and simply said _mine_ and _mine_ and _mine_ until all the meaning went out of them and only the sense remained. That was when his hunger wrapped around them, nearly a tangible thing, and that was when Takeshi found his second word. "Yes," he said, feeling the shape of it on his tongue as the scent of the other flared up, sharp and exultant.

Takeshi let instinct react to that, wrapping himself around the other, aware on some level that he _wanted_ and that this was part of what he wanted, what they both wanted. He pressed against the other, feeling the slim lines of his body and the hardness of him that matched the tightness between his own legs, and said it again, _yes_ , as he tugged on the other's shoulders, felt the other's fangs against his lips, _yes_ as he spread his knees wide and rocked his body against the other's, and a new word, _please_ , as the purr rose up in the other's throat.

Then the timbre of the other's voice changed abruptly, though his scent did not. "No," he said, pulling himself away from Takeshi easily and holding Takeshi against the floor.

Takeshi whined, forgetting everything he'd learned as the loss of contact cut through him, too caught up in his own hunger to remember hard-learned lessons. He struggled against the other's grip. "Yes," he said, "yes, please."

The other showed his fangs then, growling a warning that was deep. "No."

It had all the tones of finality to it. The other held him down a moment longer, then vanished, moving faster than Takeshi could track and leaving him where he lay, frustrated and yearning. And though Takeshi looked for him for the rest of the day, he did not find the other again till night had fallen and it was time to hunt.

   
 

In relatively short order, Takeshi decided that he did not like the word _no_ very much. It was a pity, because the other used that nearly as often as he used _mine_.

There were other words, too, that followed on the heels of a word that Takeshi knew he did like: _why_. Takeshi didn't always understand them, especially when the other held him back sometimes from the enticing scent of prey on the wind, and he spent a while puzzling over the concept of _not prey_. Prey smelled like prey, so how could some prey be prey and other prey not? It didn't make sense. Neither did the way the other said _no_ when they were both hungry for each other, though the other never bothered to explain that, no matter how many times Takeshi asked him why.

But other things that were explained to him did make sense, whether because the other's explanations were good or because it was easier to think, now, sometimes, especially after the hunt when his thirst was slaked and the urgent need to hunt-fight-kill had abated some. They hunted at night because the sun would hurt them, because the sun was the source of fire. And fire brought the true death. Almost Takeshi seemed to recall someone else telling him that fire was necessary for the hunt, but that seemed strange to him. Fire wasn't necessary for him at all, really—he had fangs and claws, speed and the strength to hold his prey while he fed, and the sun would be there when he was done to burn away what was left over.

He had a blurred sense that perhaps it had not always been so, but when he toyed with that idea, it brought a whole host of things surging up with it, things that he didn't like, as well as the sense of a gaping pit yawning beneath him, one that would open up and swallow him whole if he permitted those things to come clear, so Takeshi didn't let them. It was far better to set them aside and to go on with the other as he'd always done, and leave what had come before alone.

And the time slipped by. Takeshi didn't pay it much note, except that the nights turned cool and the smell of the trees changed from green to brown. Then the nights turned cold and the wind smelled of ice and snow, while the trees were bare and still. Sometimes they saw the ones who looked like prey but did not smell like prey; they went about bundled in heavy clothes with their breath steaming in the air, always unaware that Takeshi and the other were watching. It was funny to see their strange ways; Takeshi wondered aloud, once, what it was like to feel the cold as they seemed to.

The other glanced at him when he did, but all he said was, "Unpleasant." Which Takeshi supposed was probably true. Then they caught the scent of true prey and it was time to hunt, and he forgot all about it in the joy of the chase and the taste of blood in his mouth.

   
 

Not long after that, they had a visitor.

Takeshi remembered the sense of power and old, old strength from when it had come to their compound before. Remembered, too, the heady scent of this prey's blood and the taste of it in the other's mouth. And remembered the way that taste had mixed with the scent of hunger and wanting.

It was difficult, so difficult, not to go rushing into where the visitor-prey sat with the other. Every fiber of Takeshi vibrated with the need to do just that, to fight and take and drink, with how much he hungered to taste the visitor-prey's rich blood on the other's skin and fangs, with how much he wanted wanted _wanted_. But acting on that would only make the other growl at him, or cuff him, so he stilled the want in himself as best as he could. Sliding the door aside and stepping into the room where the visitor-prey sat with the other and _not_ launching himself at the visitor-prey required everything he had; he hesitated inside the door and stood there, fighting with himself.

The visitor-prey turned and looked at him, his mouth curved so that just the tips of his fangs showed. "You are coming along, I see," he said. "Hello, Yamamoto Takeshi. I am Sawada Tsunayoshi, and I am pleased to finally meet you." His mouth curved just a bit further, his lips slipping up to show more of his fangs. "Formally, that is."

Hearing his name in someone else's mouth sluiced over Takeshi like—like a bucket of cold water, he thought confusedly, and that shocked him to stillness. He didn't even know what a bucket of cold water felt like, was indifferent to the cold and the heat alike, and the comparison made no real sense. (Now, he thought, he was indifferent _now_ , but it had not always been so.) He was Yamamoto Takeshi, and that _meant_ something, something to do with the gaping sense of loss that always threatened to engulf him when he thought of before.

So he fastened on the other thing rather than think on that. Sawada Tsunayoshi. He knew that name, too, seemed to recall being told about that name. It had to do with power and strength and age…

Sawada glanced at the other then, disrupting Takeshi's struggle to remember without remembering too much by saying, "Is he still working on his words?"

The other glanced Takeshi's way and shook back his sleeve to pour sake. Takeshi could smell it, sweet in the air, and for the first time he recognized that the other was dressed peculiarly. Sawada wore a suit and tie, but the other wore a kimono, just as Takeshi did. Which was strange, a little. Old-fashioned.

 _Old-fashioned_ was a new concept to wrestle with; Takeshi put it aside for later as the other sipped his sake. Eventually he said, "They come and go."

"I see." Sawada glanced Takeshi's way again. "I suppose it can't be rushed." He sounded sorry for it, though. "I commend your self-control, youngling. You are learning fast."

There was something incongruous about being told that, Takeshi thought, though he didn't quite know why. Perhaps it was to do with Sawada's apparent age: he looked scarcely older than twelve, which was… strange. Too complicated to think through while he was still fighting the urge to throw himself at Sawada and drink, so he didn't try.

Sawada looked at him for a bit longer and sighed. "Well. Perhaps you'll remember how to use your words eventually," he said. "As I recall, you used to be quite gregarious." He turned to the other while Takeshi tried to make sense of that and the implication that Sawada had known him before. "You may bring him to us when you feel he is ready, but send word ahead so that I might make arrangements. There are those in my care I would not distress."

"You're soft, Sawada," the other said, showing his fangs.

Sawada merely smiled, showing the barest tips of his fangs. "When I may be." He glanced at Takeshi again and rose. "But I think I will not test your fledgling any further today. Thank you for the sake, Hibari." He turned and stepped away, going out into the gardens and vanishing into the trees, even though the sun was still in the sky.

Takeshi stared after him, puzzled by many things. He settled on the simplest of them. "He doesn't burn…?"

"He shows off." The other—Hibari?—said, disdain dripping off each word, along with something that might have been grudging respect. "He's very old. And very powerful. But shameless sometimes. No self-respecting vampire lord should stoop to using sunscreen."

The word _vampire_ reverberated inside Takeshi's skull in a strange way. "Vampire," he repeated, hearing his voice almost as if he had been taken somewhere outside of himself. "He's a vampire." For some reason, that made him feel—queasy, somehow, as if he stood on ground that rocked and pitched under his feet. "Vampire?"

The other, Hibari, looked at him then, eyes cool. "What did you think we were?"

The ground quaking under Takeshi's feet dropped away altogether and he fell, the word _vampire_ roaring in his ears, tearing at him mercilessly. He was a vampire, he was one of _them_ , and how had he not permitted himself to recognize what he was till now?

The door to the garden was still open, letting the chill winter sunlight in to spill across the floor. Takeshi saw the bar of light that lay across the floor and lunged without thinking, throwing himself at it. He heard a snarl as he stretched his hands out for the sunlight, not caring about the way it seared his skin. Better that, better the true death, than to be this—

The other's weight slammed into him, knocking him across the room and through the lathe-and-paper screen into the dim shadows of the next room. The other was snarling, his lips peeled back from his fangs and his eyes blazing like the heart of a gas flame. He slashed his claws across Takeshi's cheek, punishingly deep, as Takeshi curled around his scorched hands. "Stupid!" he raged. "Stupid, stupid fledgling!" He struck Takeshi again, lacerating his jaw, and then picked him up bodily to shake him with vicious strength. "You are _mine_ and you will not!"

Something rose up in Takeshi then, sparking at those words like steel striking stone. He growled, struggling against the other's grip on his throat. "Vampire," he said, lashing out with his own claws. They glanced off the other's shoulder, slicing through silk and into the flesh beneath. " _Vampire_."

The other snarled at him again as Takeshi raged against him, losing everything but the hatred that boiled out of him at the mere _thought_ of vampires. He twisted out of the other's hold and launched himself at the other's throat, intent on shredding it. The other batted him out of the air, knocking him across the room as casually as someone swatting a fly. Takeshi snarled at him again and propelled himself forward, because he was going to rend the other to pieces, just like he'd done with Squalo, who had—who had—

Takeshi howled in mid-leap as the pit opened up beneath him and memory dragged him down. He crashed into the other, Hibari, who'd been the one to offer him another chance at Squalo, the vampire who'd slaughtered his father. He raked his claws across Hibari's face, or tried to, howling again as grief crashed down on him, as fresh as the night he'd come home from the movies and found his father's body sliced open, drained of blood and lying on the floor like a piece of discarded trash. Takeshi screamed until he had no voice left to scream with, fighting Hibari—or trying to. Hibari let him, knocking Takeshi's blows aside until Takeshi had exhausted himself. Then he swept Takeshi down and pinned him against the floor, his hand tight on Takeshi's throat and his weight heavy on Takeshi's chest, almost as heavy as the memory of Tousan's death, almost as heavy as knowing that he'd become the thing he hated.

"Are you done?" Hibari asked him, his tone perfectly level.

Takeshi closed his eyes. "Kill me," he said, the words harsh in his throat.

Hibari's grip on his throat tightened until Takeshi could feel the claws breaking his skin. Then the pressure stopped. "So Tsuyoshi's cub is a coward after all." When Takeshi opened his eyes, he saw that Hibari's expression was as contemptuous as his tone. "And to think he was proud of you."

"He's _dead_ ," Takeshi told him, which was the only thing he could think of at the moment, the only way he could react to the cold, sick feeling those words squeezed out of him.

Hibari was impassive, staring down at him with eyes that glittered darkly. "But you are not."

That struck through Takeshi and he went still, trying to decide how he felt about that.

Hibari added, "And so is Byakuran, for that matter."

Byakuran.

Takeshi remembered that name, too, now, and reacted to it with the same instinct that drove him forward when he scented prey on the wind. A growl rose in his throat and he felt air on his fangs.

Over him, Hibari's smile was faint and chill. "Byakuran," he said, each syllable precise. "I thought you might recall that name." He raised an eyebrow. "Still eager for death, fledgling?"

"Not before I kill Byakuran," Takeshi said, because Tousan had—Tousan had always said never to leave a job half-finished, because that was sloppy.

Hibari tightened his grip on Takeshi's throat again, briefly, before he eased it and his expression smoothed over. "I suppose that will do for now." He struck Takeshi again, raking four slices down Takeshi's cheek. "You will not do anything so stupid again." When Takeshi snarled at him, he repeated the blow, slicing open Takeshi's other cheek casually. "I am your sire, and you _will_ listen to me."

Takeshi looked up at the curl of Hibari's lip and the gleam of his fangs, feeling how his hands and cheeks ached, gradually regenerating, saw Hibari's readiness to strike him again until the lesson took, and slowly tilted his chin back. He would acquiesce to that for the time being. Yes. He had reason.

Hibari held his throat, grip unyielding, and leaned down. He ran his tongue along one of the lines he'd opened on Takeshi's cheek. "You are mine," he said, the words whispering against Takeshi's skin. "Do not forget that again."

Takeshi closed his eyes and did not say anything, and permitted Hibari to groom the blood from his wounds.

And for once, the scent of Hibari's hunger was the only one that hung in the air.


End file.
